


Losing my religion

by pollencount



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Death, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Religion, Tragedy, self reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollencount/pseuds/pollencount
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders believed in many things during his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing my religion

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a happy fic. It is not even a real fic. It is merely my attempt at writing something introspective.

As a child I used to believe in Andraste, simply because my parents did so. And because that's what you do, when you come from the Anderfels. I believed in hard work and modesty. I believed that if I just made myself useful, nobody would care, that I didn't speak their language. I believed that we could live like that forever, my parents, my brother and I. What difference do a couple more refugees make, anyway? Of course, that was before the incident. Before the screaming and the tears, the biting and the kicking with yet too short legs. Before my father's silent face.  
Before I knew what I was.  
Had I only known it would be the last time I'd see them, I'd have told my brother that I loved him, despite him being such a pain in the ass most of the time. I'd have told my mother not to worry, for everything is going to be alright in the end. Because lying is acceptable, if it's for the greater good. Andraste is fine with that. Andraste, as it turned out, is fine with a lot of things. Things done in her name.

In the circle I used to believe, that every prison has its weakness. And if I only searched thoroughly enough, I could find it and use it in my favour. I would find a way to escape those ashen walls, ashen robes and empty, ashen faces. Of course, that meant, learning their language was inevitable. Since all their books and all their lessons were in Common. Lessons about the _useful_ practice of magic. Without the actual practice-part. Not that it mattered, as I had resigned on being useful long ago. Albeit, to learn the language, I needed a teacher; and that's how I found my own weakness.  
Karl was Anders, just like me. Well, maybe not quite like me. Unlike me he was very mature, responsible and he had that rather impressive beard. I am pretty certain he came into the world like that, all bearded and responsible. During the days, he taught me Common. During the nights, he taught me other things. In return, I taught him how to dream. About freedom and a home and the feeling of rain on your skin.  
We knew it was dangerous, but we didn't care. I didn't. For, what is the worth of a life devoid of risks?  
Had I known the consequences....

As a warden I used to believe in hope and second chances. I believed in certainties. The certainty of an early death, for instance. The certainty of a kind of freedom, that nobody would take away from me, ever again. Not even a templar. _Especially_ not a templar! Oghren was drunk, Velanna was angry, Nathaniel was – well – Nathaniel. It was nice and simple to comprehend.  
And then there was Justice. Thus suddenly things ceased being simple. Or comprehensible, for that matter. In spite of my very constant and very vehement attempts of not thinking about anything beyond a full stomach, a nice cock and the occasional bath, Justice managed to infiltrate my mind with thoughts of righteousness and altruism. For a spirit he could be a real killjoy.  
I don't remember, how it happened, but I found myself listening to his words with increased regularity. I would have never admitted it, but part of me knew he was right. Part of me got sick at the thought of other mages having to endure, what I had.  
I took the decision... _we_ took the decision, when Rolan joined our illustrious, little group. And suddenly, there was no going back. There never has been.

When I went to Kirkwall, I believed in nothing. Because that's what life had taught me. Life proves you wrong in the funniest ways. Over and over again. Until you realise, what a fool you have been. I worked hard and lived modest, not because my father taught me to, long ago, in a different life; but rather because I had no need for comfort or possessions any more. No deed for unnecessary social interaction or naïve dreams.  
What I had, was a purpose. A destiny even. Something I'd never had before.  
It all changed, the day Hawke knocked on my door. He was a mage like me. An apostate. Not an abomination, though. But then, I wasn't either. Not quite. It hurt to look at him, for he reminded me of who I could have been. If things had been different. But they weren't; and I was there, trying to make sense of everything. Trying to follow my purpose without losing myself. What I couldn't possibly have calculated, was that in the end, I would not lose myself by my work but by a man. Not a simple man, but still a man. Hawke got both the best and the worst out of me. He made me want. He made me crave for the impossible. He made me lose my focus.  
And I slipped.  
It wasn't his fault, though. It wasn't the girl's fault. It wasn't even the templar's fault, but my own. It was _her_ blood on _my_ hands, that I couldn't wash away. Never wash away.  
After a while I found a new purpose. I made a new plan. One, that had to be heard, no matter what. In retrospect, you could call it desperate, insane, murder, whichever word you consider suitable. I did, what I had to do. There is no moral in this. No rightness. No reassurance. No regret.  
Nothing.

And Hawke did, what _he_ had to do. So, when the man I loved drove the dagger into my back and the air right out of my lungs in cold precision, I could have sworn, I saw the Anderfels. The green fields. The scarce trees. The short, sturdy horses. And the glaciers in the distance. And then, there was a man, standing in front of his small stone house. Hands rough from the work, hair bleached out from the sun. His children running around, snatching the cats by their tails or shooting lightning at innocent rocks. The man did not move. He just stood there and smiled, for he had everything he could have ever dreamed of.


End file.
